There came a sigh from the bed—the faintest of sounds; Mrs. Quentyns turned her head quickly, and saw to her rapture that Judy's big greeny-gray eyes were wide open and fixed earnestly on her face. There was no surprise in the pretty eyes, nor any additional color in the pale little face.
"Hilda," said Judy, "I thought it was only a bad dream—you never went away, did you?"
"I am never going to leave you again, Judy," replied her sister; "never, never, as long as we both live. I vow—I promise—nothing shall part us, nothing except death."
Hilda flung herself on her knees by the child's bed, and burst into hysterical sobs.
CHAPTER XII.
HILDA'S ENGAGEMENT RING.
My heart is heavy for scorn,
Mine eyes with impatient tears,
But heaven looks blue through the cherry-blooms,
And preaches away my fears.
—Emily Pfeiffer.
Contrary to the doctor's fears, and in accordance with Hilda's hopes, Judy grew better. A weight had been lifted from her heart—her starved affections were nourished and soothed once more. Hilda scarcely ever left her room, and Hilda's presence was perpetual sunshine to the child.
No one could possibly have behaved better than Quentyns did during this trying time. A certain feeling of compunction had visited him when he discovered how real Judy's illness was. He was assailed by a momentary pricking of his conscience, but as the little girl quickly grew better, and was soon pronounced by the doctor to be quite out of danger, it was but natural that an active man of the world like Quentyns should wish to return to town, should find the quiet Rectory simply unendurable, and also that he should wish to take his young wife with him.